


Replaced

by WithTheKeyIsKing



Series: Interlaced [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angry John, BAMF Sherlock, Big Brother Mycroft, Bittersweet Ending, Conditioning, Confused Sherlock, Drugged John, Drugged Sex, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, M/M, Manipulative Jim, Memory Alteration, Memory Loss, Mind Manipulation, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Mycroft IS the British Government, Obsessive Jim, Poor John, Possessive Jim
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-22
Updated: 2017-02-22
Packaged: 2018-09-25 22:25:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9849116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WithTheKeyIsKing/pseuds/WithTheKeyIsKing
Summary: When Sherlock wakes up and sees Jim, he is hit with a rush of belonging. This man is his equal in every way. Jim lives in his heart in a way that no one ever has before.Sherlock knows that's true. So why does it feel off?





	

**Author's Note:**

> Holy fuck look what I did!!! Trust me, no one is more surprised than me that this story is ACTUALLY finished and ACTUALLY published. I am genuinely proud of myself, considering the complete lack of motivation I'd had when I first started this. But then the ideas started snowballing and I literally spent DAYS (my entire weekend + more) in the exact same position on my couch, writing away until I got this done and perfect. And, funnily enough when paired with my lack of motivation, this one is twice as long! So yay - go me!
> 
> I hope you all love this as much as you did the first one. Also, sort of like after I finished "Erased", I may write another one. Let me know what you guys think! With enough comments/demands for another then maybe I'll be able to start the cycle again and find my motivation and creativity to actually accomplish it, because I really do love the world I've set up.
> 
> Happy reading!

Sherlock Holmes woke up slowly, data coming in bit by bit.

First, he felt his hair, slightly damp against his forehead and against the pillow beneath his head. A faint smell of strawberries came from the drying strands; someone had washed his hair.

Next, he felt the sheets against his skin; Egyptian cotton, sateen, maybe 300-thread count. Whoever owned these sheetsand the visco elastic foam mattress underneathwas very focused on their comfort, and didn't mind the expenses.

Along with all the data concerning the bed he was carefully laid out in, came the knowledge that he was naked. This didn't really bother him; he'd never been all that uncomfortable concerning nudity, whether it be his or anyone else's. It was just strange, because when he went to check his recent memories to see how he arrived naked in a lavish, expensive bed, he could only see a vague fog.

This shot him instantly into awareness.

Sherlock's eyes flew open, ignoring the bright light that suddenly assaulted his senses, and sat up. He looked around himself, trying to find any clues that would bring back the memories of how he'd come to be in this room.

The sheets were a deep gray color, the comforter (duck feather) black. The room only had a few items in ita dresser, two side tables, a desk, a filled bookshelfbesides the bed, all a smooth dark brown color and looked very well-made. At the end of the bed were clothes, laid out nicely for him to wear. He frowned and tilted his head, easily seeing that they were most definitely _his;_ he loved that dark shirt.

The detective slowly got out of bed, cautiously putting his feet against the floor. The wood was cold, and Sherlock quickly pulled of the pair of socks sitting right by the clothes. He rolled his eyes briefly at the fact that he was naked except for a pair of socks, and then began dressing himself. When he was pulling on the last piece, his suit jacket, the bedroom door opened and a man walked in.

Black hair, almost-black eyes, pale skin. Five foot eight, approximately 140 pounds. He was wearing a nice, tailored suit, something that was clearly expensive ( _Westwood,_ his mind told him). He walked with pure confidence, a self-assurance that showed that he knew he was powerful and in control and loved it all.

Data rushed into his mind that he couldn't have from just looking at this man. _Irishborn in Dublin. Intelligent and clever, oh so_ very _clever. Consulting criminal, only one in the world. Born October 21st, 1978. Libra. Size 10 shoe. Left-handed._

And then there was the emotion that came with seeing this man, the emotions that Sherlock didn't understand. Love, affection, power, curiosity, passion, captivation, fascination, belonging... _He loves me, he cares about me. When everyone else hated me he showed me affection. He is on my level like no one has ever been. He_ understands _what it's like to be me, to get bored and want_ more _from life than what those ordinary people could provide._

Seeing James Moriarty right in front of him brought back the memories of how he came to be there. An unnecessary kidnapping. Resisting against what Jim wanted because...because they always did those kinds of things, didn't they? Who could be cleverer. This time Jim won, showed him truths he hadn't wanted to acknowledge before. They talked about his brother and Lestrade and Hooper and all of those other horrid little people, as well as

There was something else, something he was forgetting, something that felt like loss, but before Sherlock could even consider what it was, his mind was already turning away from the topic.

James Moriarty watched him through all of his thinking, his head tilted to the side and a small smile playing on his lips. There was something hesitant and wary in his eyes as he took a casual step closer to Sherlock, like expecting Sherlock to attack or yell, for some strange reason.

"Jim." Sherlock said contentedly, the name rolling easily off of his tongue like it was meant to be there.

The shorter man's eyes lit up and he grinned. He stepped closer, right into Sherlock's personal space, and pressed up against him, placing his hand against Sherlock's cheek. Another rush of _love_ and _belonging_ hit Sherlock and he leaned into the touch, his eyes sliding shut with a sigh. Jim's hand moved, his thumb tracing over the bridge of Sherlock's nose, across his eyebrows and eyelids, and over his lips.

"You were dead to the world for so long," Jim's Irish drawl murmured as his fingers continued their mapping. Sherlock held still to let him. "I started to become worried that I'd broken you for good." The man giggled at his words, but there was a nervous edge to it that betrayed the fact that Jim actually  _had_ been troubled about Sherlock not waking up.

"Jim." Sherlock said again, on a breath, trying to reassure him about something, anything; Sherlock wasn't sure.

Suddenly, Jim's hand was gone and his lips were pressing against Sherlock's, fierce and strong and demanding. His hands fisted into Sherlock's jacket, pulling him as close as he could get. Sherlock readily kissed back, his heart slamming in his chest as he wrapped a hand into Jim's hair, his other arm going around the shorter man's waist.

The criminal backed him up until his legs hit the edge of the bed and then pushed him down onto it, climbing on top of him, his lips traveling down his neck. His hands yanked at Sherlock's jacket and he forced it off, eliciting a chuckle from Sherlock. Jim then ripped at Sherlock's shirt, pulling the dark fabric from his shoulders and popping buttons.

Sherlock rose an eyebrow. "I liked that shirt."

Jim looked up at him through his eyelashes, the hunger in his dark eyes sending a thrill through Sherlock. "Sorry, dear," Jim murmured. "Would you like me to stop and get you another one?"

The detective was going to snark back that he would, indeed, but then Jim's hand was in his pants and around his length and intelligible words left his head. A moan poured out between his lips, his fingers clenching and curling into the sheets. Jim chuckled and began rolling his hips against Sherlock's own, pushing them together in a pleasurable way.

Sherlock got a flash of them doing this in a different setting, in a stone room where Sherlock tried to fight back and couldn't, and it instantly made him want to stop what they were doing. "Jim," he murmured, slightly panicked, lifting a hand to push at the other man's shoulder. In response, Jim rose his fingers and ran them lovingly across the side of Sherlock's face and then down his neck and arm.

In an instant, Sherlock felt immediately calm and reassured. Peace and love flooded his senses, and when Jim began removing both of their pants, Sherlock happily let him, still high in the strange bliss that one motion brought to him, a bliss he didn't understand and didn't care to at the moment.

When Jim entered him and began a brutal pace, Sherlock moaned and arched at all the right times, wrapping his legs around Jim's hips to pull him closer, to make him go faster. He did not see Jim's sadistic and self-satisfied grin, malevolently pleased at having Sherlock Holmes moaning and begging for him to go faster, when just a few days ago Sherlock hadn't even been able to go through this without crying.

Not that Sherlock remembered any of that, of course.

* * *

Mycroft Holmes was not a man to be trifled with.

He'd had a insanely high government clearance since he was just a few years out of University, and to this day he basically controlled the British government. Not only that, but he had large influence in almost every other country in the world. If Mycroft was a more Machiavellian man, he'd be ruling the world and not just running it.

All of this came to be because Mycroft was an intelligent, ambitious, determined, cunning leader who had a real eye for putting pieces together that most wouldn't notice. If asked, the therapist he had visited twice as a child on his mother's wish would say that his shoot to the top of the ranks in such a short time was due to his absolute need to control whatever was put in front of him.

Mycroft would agree that she was right. Then again, the woman probably wouldn't have any idea about the control he had. He simply occupied a minor position in the British government, after all.

Mycroft Holmes was not a man to be trifled with.

And yet someone had stepped right into his brother's life and stolen him away. Not only that, but he'd broken him.

Looking back at their childhoodwhich Mycroft had been doing a lot of, as of lateSherlock had not always been an independent child. He'd always been daring and curious, going out of his way to try things strange and out of the norm, looking for new results, even if the plans had a possibility of injury at the end.

But before starting any of these expeditions he had always gone to Mycroft, talking rapid-fire fast with his brilliant ideas. Sometimes he had just wanting to share, so that someone else knew the idea. Other times he'd request an object that he couldn't acquire on his own but Mycroftas an older childcould. Or sometimes he'd want Mycroft to go with him, his pale eyes big as he pleaded for Mycroft's assistance.

Looking back now, Mycroft missed when Sherlock would freely ask for his help, unafraid of looking weak or incapable of handling any problems himself. Mycroft knew it was his fault that Sherlock had stopped coming to him.

He'd been fourteen and Sherlock seven. Sherlock was becoming absolutely brilliant, rising and rising until he was impressing people left and right, just as Mycroft had. It made him pleased, that his brother wasn't like all the other children, but Mycroft was twice his age and with a mind that was growing rapidly. Sherlock could not yet keep up with him. No one had expected him toit would've been ridiculous, a genius seven year old being on the same level as a genius fourteen year oldbut Mycroft began to be annoyed by it.

From then, whenever Sherlock came to him, he'd simply sneer and roll his eyes and make some comment about Sherlock being an idiot. For a while it seemed like Sherlock actually believed him, thinking himself stupid, until their parents sent him to a small school and Sherlock saw how brilliant he was in comparison to the rest of the world.

He had resented Mycroft from that point on. Not only had Mycroft made him feel like nothing, but he'd simply turned from being his brother one day to a high-and-mighty stranger the next.

The last time Sherlock had asked for Mycroft's help had been December sixth, 1986, exactly one month before Sherlock's eighth birthday. That had been twenty-five years ago. Twenty-five years of Sherlock never asking for Mycroft's help because of Mycroft's own actions, and now Mycroft was living with the knowledge that the first time his little brother, the person he was supposed to _protect,_ had asked him for help in such a long time was because a madman had kidnapped him and was raping him.

Mycroft Holmes was not a man to be trifled with.

And yet his little brother had been taken so very easily.

It had been two and a half weeks since Mycroft had watched a video of his brother's first rape. Mycroft used the term  _"first"_ quite on purpose, because he did not believe at all that that instance shown on film was the only time Moriarty raped his brother. Two weeks of no live feed was sure to have had some events like that. Plus, the pre-recorded video that had appeared on the website a few days ago showed Sherlock naked, which left the evidence of recent intercourse visible to a keen eye.

Mycroft had no doubt that Moriarty had timed the just-enough faded injuries so that only Mycroft would really notice the significance of them without needed to study it closely.

Just about three weeks had passed since Sherlock had been taken, and Mycroft still had absolutely no idea where his brother was being held. He had the entirety of the British government at his disposal, as well as the US', France's, Italy's, Spain's, and on and on...Moriarty had simply vanished, and Sherlock along with him.

Frankly, Mycroft couldn't help but feel pity for John Watson. The man was madly in love with Sherlock, had been since their first meetingMycroft had only had to take one look at the army doctor that first night and know the truth. The problem was that John had been resolutely denying that he had feelings for Sherlock for a long time, and then when he'd finally begun to acknowledge it, Sherlock had made it clear what he thought of emotion, oblivious to his own...

And then Moriarty had come into Sherlock's life.

Mycroft didn't know if he'd ever be able to explain the truth to John, seeing as what the man had been going through the past three weeks, and how much he wanted to believe that Sherlock was absolutely nothing like Moriarty, especially considering recent events. But Mycroft knew his brother, with all of his faults and blessings and darkness and light, and he knew what Sherlock had been _feeling_ when Moriarty first came.

John had gotten a glimpse of the "darker" side of Sherlock during their Great Game. Sherlock had been putting the puzzles ahead of human life. John had been angry, so _very_ angry, and hadn't even wanted to listen to the logic Sherlock had used to defend his actions.

_"I hope you'll be very happy together."_

_"Sorry, what?"_

_"There are lives at stake, Sherlock. Actual_ human _lives. Just-Just so I know, do you care about that at all?"_

_"Will caring about them help save them?"_

_"Nope."_

_"Then I'll continue not to make that mistake."_

_"And you find that easy, do you?"_

_"Yes, very. Is that news to you?"_

_"Nope."_

Mycroft _may_ have bugged 221B while The Game continued.

The thing was, both John and Sherlock had lied during that conversation. It _had_ been news to John; he might've been to crime scenes with Sherlock many times, had seen the body parts in the fridge, but those had been dead people, and Sherlock never did anything to hurt the victims or take any body parts that hadn't been donated to science. But right then, Sherlock had completely dismissed caring about people's lives.

_"Well obviously I lost that round. Although technically I did solve the case."_

And Sherlock had lied about the real reason he hadn't cared about their lives. Mycroft knew his brother, and he knew that Sherlock had simply been too wrapped up in The Great Game, too excited and challenged, to even bother to recognize that there were lives at stake past the fact that them living would mean a win for him.

Could Mycroft ever actually explain that to John? How could he explain to a man who loved Sherlock with everything he waswho wanted to believe the absolute best in the detectivethat Sherlock had _wanted_ Jim Moriarty? How did he explain that Sherlock had finally found someone just as brilliant as himself who actually _wanted_ to engage with him (and yes, Mycroft took responsibility for that) and wanted to keep it so badly?

How did he explain that the only reason Sherlock hadn't gone with Moriarty that night at the poolsomething he had wanted to do so obviously and so _desperately_ was because John was there wrapped in a Semtex vest and letting that be felt too much like betrayal. Felt too much like _losing._

This wasn't to say that Sherlock didn't love John; Mycroft knew that his brother didor maybe _had,_  at this point, considering the contents of the videoit was just that Sherlock had wanted to be _with_ Moriarty, just as Moriarty wanted to be with him.

 _"We were_ made _for each other, Sherlock."_

Mycroft didn't know for sure whether or not Sherlock had loved Moriarty. Mycroft  _did_ know that Sherlock had felt very strongly for the criminal mastermindfascination, rapture, longing, excitementbut he wasn't certain that _love_ had come into the equation on Sherlock's side.

As for Moriarty...well, _obsession_ was the word that rang throughout Mycroft's mind. Ever since Moriarty had come to Mycroft's attention, it had been obvious to Mycroft that, one day, Sherlock would be very much in danger if he denied the man what he wanted. Frankly, Mycroft hadn't even been sure that Sherlock _would_ deny him. His brother was a great man, could be a very good one when he tried, but he had always gotten bored so easily, had always felt so _alone._

Moriarty fixed both categories flawlessly, drawing Sherlock in like a moth to a flame.

Maybe the only reason Sherlock had resisted Moriarty at all during his kidnapping was because he saw giving into the man's whims as losing their new game, not because he didn't want to be with Moriarty. Knowing his brother, that was completely and utterly possible.

Or maybe Mycroft was underestimating his brother like he had many times before. Maybe John Watson had influenced Sherlock enough that Sherlock no longer wanted to be with Moriarty, at least not completely. Maybe Sherlock had comes to terms with enough of his love for the doctor to realize how he could be _good._

Honestly, Mycroft thought it might have been a mix of both.

Clearly Moriarty had thought much the same, seeing as he'd focused on Sherlock's want for him and moral attachment to John. He'd basically said as much in the beginning of the brainwashing, after all.

Maybe it was better for John if he never knew about any of that. Maybe it was better for John to continue seeing Sherlock as a hero, better for him to hold onto that image whenever they got a hold of information regarding Sherlock assisting Moriarty's criminal plots.

Would that be kinder? Or crueler?

* * *

Sherlock lost count of the how many times he and Jim had sex in just a few hours. The bed, the dresser, the floor, the shower, against the wall, the balcony...He was amazed at how many places could actually be used effectively for intercourse. He was also quite amazed by how many random things could be turned into sexual objects. He would also be concerned, if it all hadn't felt so good.

He really shouldn't have been surprised by the criminal mastermind's ingenuity.

Finally, when Jim had seemed _incredibly_ sated, he let Sherlock go to take an _actual_ shower, one not interrupted by the creative use of a loofa or pushing the limit of a gag reflex. Sherlock chuckled at the thought.

When he exited the shower, he towel-dried his hair enough that it wouldn't be sopping, ran a brush briefly through it, and then left it to air-dry. The dresser had all of his shirts that had been in his room at 221B, and the closet had all of his suits, as well as a rack of his shoes. And hanging right at the end, exactly as he'd left it, was his coat.

Sherlock smiled and dressed quickly, wanting to have his Belstaff on as soon as possible. When his white shirt was buttoned and his suit jacket adjusted correctly, he slid his arms into the sleeves and sighed contentedly. It hung on his like it always had, a perfect fit, a piece of himself, his armor against the world.

The current weather wasn't necessarily cold enough for a coat, but he wouldn't be too warm in it, either, and Sherlock was feeling the strange need to keep a part of himself held tight at the moment.

He stared at himself in the long-length mirror on the inside of the closet door for a moment, examining his change in features since before this newest adventure with Jim began.

There were circles under his eyes, less notable than he would have expected, but that might have been because he had been asleep _(unconscious, unaware)_  for the last couple of days. His face was thinner, his already-pronounced cheekbones even more evident than they had been before the "kidnapping". Other than that he looked rather like himself, especially with his tailored suit and long coat. It made him feel better.

Better than what, he wasn't sure.

Sherlock strode out of his room. The staircase was ornate and Sherlock ran his hand along the smooth banister, smiling slightly at Jim's obvious tastes as he descended. Jim always wanted the biggest, the brightest, the best.

If he were to analyze thatwhich he had, _many_ timeshe would say that Jim's want for the preeminent and grand was a way to rise past his poor and completely powerless background in Churchtown. Robert James O'Sullivan, younger brother to James O'Sullivan II and the youngest son of town-drunk James O'Sullivan Sr. and Moira O'Sullivan nee Muircheartaigh.

His father beat him and drank himself to death. He moved to Sussex with his mother and brother. He killed Carl Powers because of the constant abuse that was too much like his father's. His brother went off to join the military. He killed the last link to his heart, and became a ghost. He confronted his brother, ready to kill him, too, and then decided that the man could be useful.

He began using part of his middle namehis _brother's_ nameand a version of his mother's maiden name as an alias. He became Jim Moriarty, consulting criminal.

Sherlock didn't think Jim knew that Sherlock knew all of those things about him. Jim had worked _very_ hard to keep them concealed from the rest of the world, and had succeeded for years. Idiotically, no one had ever connected Colonel James Muircheartaigh to the criminal Jim Moriarty who was causing chaos all over the world. Maybe the analysts working under Mycroft that _had_ noticed it had thought it far too obvious to be connected. Idiots.

The detective's steps faltered and he stuttered to a halt. His chest tightened in brief pain and the need for _escape;_ he fought to catch his breath. But panic was quickly shoved away by his brain and instantly replaced by anger. His fists clenched, his body vibrating slightly, and he suddenly wanted to _hurt_ someone, to let out his rage on someone who deserved it.

Someone like Mycroft.

His big brother. A man who put his ambitions over his very own brother. A man who had called him _stupid_ and _childish_ and _slow_ and _hebetudinous_ a million times, enough that he'd even believed it himself for a while. A man who paid random people to spy on him just so that he could make sure that his troublesome, drug addict little brother didn't fall back into nasty habits that would affect his political career. A man who cruelly placed someone right into his life, Jo-

Sherlock's stomach rumbled and he moved down the hallway, intent on searching out the kitchen to put together some food. He wasn't aware of how close he'd gotten to a truth just out of view. He wasn't even aware that he'd lost his train of thought at all, or what he'd been thinking about in the first place.

The detective followed the hallway until he came out into a nice dining room. One side of the room opened up into a wall of windows, which looked over a beautiful piece of land, and the dining table was large and stately. Sitting at the head of the table was Jim.

"Hello, dear," Jim said happily, looking up from the iPad he had perched in front of him. His right hand was cupped around a cereal bowl and his left was moving between twirling his spoon and pushing buttons on the iPad. "How was your shower? More dull than the last few, I'd imagine."

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the leer in Jim's voice and moved forward, taking the seat directly to Jim's left and facing at a ninty degree angle from him. There were plates of food on the table, piled high with bacon and pancakes and eggs and fruit. As Sherlock began pulling food onto his own plate, he glanced over and saw colorful marshmallows floating around with strangely-shaped cheerio's.

" _Lucky Charms_ , Jim? Really?" Sherlock said with a snort, pouring himself some orange juice.

In response, Jim grinned and took a big spoonful of cereal into his mouth. He made a pleased sound that was almost obscene and Sherlock couldn't help but feel amused along with his exasperation.

"You're ridiculous. And disgusting," the detective chastised, taking a sip of his juice.

"You say the sweetest things," Jim cooed. He reached over and briefly squeezed Sherlock's hand before popping to his feet. "Come on! I have something to show you."

Sherlock blinked in surprise at the sudden movement. "I'm eating." He replied bluntly.

His partner simply rolled his eyes. "My dear, you have all the time in the world to _eat._ Trust me, you'll want to come and see this."

Curiosity piqued, Sherlock let himself be pulled to his feet and from the dining room. Jim led him through a short hall and into a large living room. There were a few couches and comfy chairs spaced around, a big flat-screen TV was hooked on the wall between two bookshelves and above a stone fireplace. A kitchenette was off to the side through a small doorway, but Sherlock doubted that that was the actual kitchen.

Jim let go of his hand and moved over to a roll-top desk tucked into the side. He slid it open and picked up something that Sherlock couldn't see because Jim's body was blocking the sight of it. But when Jim turned around, Sherlock's breath caught.

It was his Stradivarius. It was _his Stradivarius._ Sherlock's feet were carrying him forward before he was even aware he was moving, his eyes locked onto the instrument he'd had and taken care of for many years. It was just as beautiful as the last time he'd seen it, and he longed to hold it, to play it, to fill himself with the peace he felt only when the perfect melodies were sliding out of his fingers.

With the care of a mother picking up a newborn, Sherlock lifted his violin to his shoulder. His long fingers plucked the bow out of the case and he gently placed it against the strings...

Sherlock did not know how long he played. It felt like another piece of himself coming home, like one more chunk was fitting back into place. His coat, his violin; having them back felt like regaining himself.

There was something missing, though. Something just as much a piece of him as these two objects, something that would fit right next to them perfectly. He just couldn't recall what it was, and then Jim was touching him and whatever that was didn't seem important at all.

The detective's eyes slid open as he drew out the last note. Jim was right next to him now, much closer than he'd been when Sherlock had started playing. His hands cupped Sherlock's cheeks tenderly, fervently, and he was staring up at Sherlock with something like reverence, like he couldn't actually believe that Sherlock was there with him. When he kissed him, it was delicate and soft, almost as if he were afraid to break the peace that had settled around them.

The sex that followed was just as gentle, and Sherlock was positive that he'd never felt as loved as he did right in those moments.

* * *

Jim Moriarty proceeded slowly for the first week and a half after Sherlock woke up.

It wasn't that he thought Sherlock was faking his affectionsno, the detective would _not_  have let him do everything he did or respond with conditioned responses if he werebut it was possible that some pieces of his old life had stuck, and he was wary of Sherlock suddenly coming back into himself now that he wasn't bound. But no; Jim had done his job _well._

He tested it at every level. He didn't flinch from the small, casual touches throughout the day (a squeeze of the hand, brushing past him in the hall, etc.). Sometimes it would take a trigger to get Sherlock to fully want to have sex, especially the kinkier it got, but he always succumbedwith _pleasure_ in the end.

That was probably Jim's favorite way to test what he'd implemented into Sherlock. Seeing how much he could do before Sherlock got uneasy. He tested the level of intensity vs. the length of time since a trigger; he tested what got Sherlock hard without a trigger and what made him go wild with one; he tested what Sherlock didn't like at allon either side of the conditioningso that he didn't do it again, because believe it or not Jim wanted Sherlock to be happy, too.

Jim _loved_ Sherlock. He loved the way he moved, loved the way he always steepled his fingers when he was thinking, unaware of his own tick. He loved the sounds that Sherlock could pull out of a violin, just as he loved the sounds he, himself, could pull out of Sherlock during sex. He loved his eyes and his mouth and his dick and his ass; he especially loved those things when they were focused on him. His eyes staring into Jim's, his lips stretched around his length, his dick pressing against him, his ass clenching his cock...it was pure _heaven._

But, most of all, Jim loved Sherlock's _mind._

That big, beautiful, _sexy_ thing in his head. It was like standing in the presence of the God that Jim didn't believe in. Watching Sherlock's mind work was to Jim like experiencing his first orgasm, murder, and torture again, all at the same time. It was glory in its purest form.

And dominating it, having Sherlock's body and mind and soul all his, to have that proud, intelligent, arrogant man bending to his will, doing everything he asked...Whenever he thought about it he got hard.

He gave Sherlock different problems to solve. He started with details of crimes like Sherlock had solved as a detective, then moved into giving Sherlock facts for him to _plot_ the crimes, which Sherlock did _brilliantly._ Theft, murder, kidnapping; Sherlock planned every single one until Jim couldn't find a single tiny flaw in any of them.

Sherlock had been _made_ for this side of the lawhad been made for Jim. He'd fought his true nature for far too long, simply not feeling like gaining his brother's ire for becoming a criminal, and then... _John Watson._

Jim shook his head, shoving the sudden fury away. There was no point getting angry about the pet anymore; Sherlock was _his_ now, as he had always been meant to be, and Dr. Watson couldn't do anything about it.

Everything was going spectacularly for Jim, as the weeks turned into a month and more. Maybe he was getting too cocky, becoming too daring, but he was flying high and didn't want to come down.

A few times, Jim had to leave the property to deal with some business. Sometimes Sherlock would go with him if the he wasn't in the middle of an experiment or planning something, and his responses to the criminal they met always made Jim want to grin. Insulted them countless times and then when the clients got fed up with it Sherlock would deliver some brilliant speech on how to fix the issue like it was nothing.

Oh yes, Jim _loved_ Sherlock's mind.

This time, when Jim went to meet with an arms dealer about travel plans, Sherlock stayed home to work on the final details for a client who wanted his sister kidnapped so that his father would have to pay a large amount of money, since the man had denied him his inheritance.

When Jim got home, he expected to find Sherlock in the study where he always was, but the detective wasn't there. Jim frowned and walked through the downstairs, checking each room as he walked by. Eventually, he came to the dining room. Sherlock was in there, but Jim didn't know what to say when he caught sight of him.

Sherlock wasn't wearing a shirt. He was standing at the wall of windows with a black sharpie in his hand, scribbling frantically on the glass. They were already almost completely filled with writing, most of it simply nonsensical. Jim could see some blood on Sherlock's arm stemming from a large cut, most of it dried but some still flowing. Glancing downward, Jim saw a broken vase at Sherlock's feet, which were also bloody.

Carefully, Jim stepped further into the room. He looked around the see if anything else was broken, anything that could injure Sherlock further, but instead his eyes landed on an open bag of cocaine. Next to it was an empty syringe, a metal spoon, and a lighter. _Fuck,_ Jim thought. _He shot up._

About a week previous they'd worked a job for a drug smuggler, and the guy had given them some product at the end in thank you along with the agreed-upon money. Jim had been planning to just resell the stuff. He hadn't even thought to consider that Sherlock might take advantage of the opportunity. _Damn._

"Sherlock?" Jim said cautiously.

The taller man whirled around. His eyes were bright and wild, his breaths coming in fast. Jim could see that the slashes on his arm were shaped in what almost looked like a _JW_. "I don't understand, I don't understand, I don'tI don't _know,_ I can't put it together. There's something _wrong,_ something _there_ but _not_ there and it _won't fit._ There's new pieces now and they're _perfect_ but they're being shoved into the wrong holes!"

Jim walked forward, trying to make sense of Sherlock's high ramblings. It sounded like...

When he was closer, Jim could make out some of what Sherlock had written, and it made his blood freeze. Some of it was just equations, brilliant ones that Jim would have to come back to later. But the restthere was a mention of techniques mainly used by army doctors. The theory behind psychosomatic injuries. Schematics of a British Army Browning L9A1.

Sherlock's drugged mind had been pushing and pushing him towards Doctor John Watson. The only thing missing was any specific reference to the man, himself, other than what was likely a _JW_ carved into Sherlock's skin. Jim didn't know if he should feel relieved or nervous.

"Sherlock," Jim said again.

 _"It won't fit,"_ Sherlock said desperately. "It won't fit, it won't fit, it won't fit, itwon'tfititwon'tfititwon'tfit _itwon'tfit-"_

Jim wrapped his arms tightly around the man he loved. Sherlock was shaking, and under his breath he kept whispering _"it won't fit",_ but he fell into Jim's hold, grasping onto him just as tightly, even as his knees gave out from under him and brought Jim to the ground with him. Jim felt something in him breaking, distraught, and he didn't understand what was happening in him just as he didn't understand how to help Sherlock.

"It's alright," Jim murmured, not knowing if he was telling the truth. "It's alright, Sherlock. You're alright. We're alright. Everything is going to be just fine."

* * *

John Watson was tired.

Six weeks had passed since John had seen Sherlock, and that had only been in a torturous video because of a madman. It had been nine weeks and five days since Sherlock had been kidnapped. Exactly sixty-eight days. John had spent many hours going over each of those days, counting what had happened on the ones he'd seen and torturing himself over the ones he hadn't.

He had spent the past nine weeks in absolute hell, and for the past six he'd had to live with the knowledge that somewhere out there was Sherlock, living with no memory of John and helping Moriarty plan crimes.

Mycroft had visited a few times to give him information. The man hadn't in the beginning, but then John had stormed in the elder Holmes' office during a very secretive meeting and demanded to be kept informed. To keep that from happening again, Mycroft checked in at least once a weekeven if he had nothingand more often when he did.

The information was never anything relating to _where_ Sherlock was being heldMycroft never said it directly, but the man had no cluebut pictures or videos of Sherlock out with Moriarty. Meeting with various criminals (many higher-class, a few lower-class); stealing things at varying levels of cost; participating and/or watching crimes unfold.

Mycroft had gotten a security tape from an auto-dealership and shared it with John. It showed Sherlock and Moriarty posing as a rich couple looking at all of the expensive cars. Sherlock was hanging onto Moriarty like a piece of arm-candy, looking at him with an overly-exaggerated expression of adoration, pulling Moriarty towards different cars like a whiny child. In turn, Moriarty looked back at him with fond indulgence.

The car-dealer was looking at Sherlock far more than the cars he was supposed to be selling. Any time Sherlock's back was to him, the man's eyes were glued to his ass, which was swaying back and forth a lot more than the way Sherlock usually walked. And from the way Moriarty grinned when he saw Sherlock doing this and the dealer staring, it was all part of the plan.

At one point, the three were standing by a shining red sports car that looked like it cost more than John's yearly salary, and Sherlock was pouting and batting his eyes like he really wanted it.

Moriarty seemed to suggest something and Sherlock's eyes lit up, but the dealer was obviously hesitant about whatever it was. But then Sherlock was close to the man, and he was moving in a way which made the man gulpand made John shift in his seatand Sherlock was whispering something in his earJohn could practically hear that low purrand then the man nodded hastily.

Instantly, Sherlock was pulling away with a large, ditsy grin on his face, saying something a few times that looked like _"thank you"_. Moriarty wrapped an arm around Sherlock's waist, pulling him close, and whispered something in his ear. For a brief moment John saw a flicker of the real Sherlock beneath, a real look of Sherlock amusement in his smile, before he locked it back under his air-headed façade.

Then Sherlock was jumping into the driver's seat of the car, Moriarty into the passenger's. Sherlock tilted his head slightly, looking back at the dealer, and smiled at him with a grin that was pure sex. John shifted again. And suddenly, the car was speeding away, Sherlock having slammed down on the gas pedal.

Along with the tape, Mycroft had given him a folder of photos of the wrecked car; Sherlock had sped directly at a cliff, and then, at the last possible second, he and Moriarty had simply thrown themselves out of the doors to avoid going over with it. The car was now nothing more than a burning hunk of crushed metal.

In the folder was also the car dealer's statement. Apparently, Moriartyor _"_ _Barrowman",_ as he'd introduced himself to the dealerhad happily suggested he and his _fiancé_ should take it for a test drive. The dealer had protested, saying that it wasn't protocol, but the fiancéno name givenhad made a "convincing argument".

 _Yea,_ John thought bitterly. _I bet you found staring at Sherlock's ass and then having his body pressed against you to be a "convincing argument"._

That incident was the one that stuck in John's mind on repeat.

It wasn't even one that showed Sherlock's switch of allegiance the most; John had seen a video of Sherlock with a bloody knife in front of a bound, cut up man, Moriarty right next to him and guiding his arm into the best methods of torture.

He'd read an eye-witness account of Sherlock standing by as a young girl was ripped from her father's arms and then watched the man be shot in the head. Apparently, the man had betrayed Moriarty. The girl was now in the care of a high-ranking government couple; Mycroft had made sure that she'd be alright.

He'd seen photos of a bank heist that had Sherlock's methods written all over it, and the statement of a boy who'd been kidnapped then returned, saying that a tall, black-haired man had played an integral role in taking him, and then making sure that he was returned perfectly unharmed.

John had seen these things. He knew that because of what Moriarty had done to him, Sherlock was no longer on his side, or anyone else's except for Moriarty's. Those things had shown him that. But the video of Sherlock at the car dealership, of him hanging onto Jim like he was the only thing that mattered...well, it seared the fact into his brain.

And yes, John knew that Sherlock's whole attitude in the video had been an act, put on for the dealer and for a bit of fun. John knew Sherlock well enough to be able to tell that. But he also knew Sherlock well enough to see the real fondness behind the exaggerated one when he looked at Moriarty. He could see the secretive smile he gave Moriarty when the dealer's back had been turned, a look of shared mischief, which Moriarty had returned very happily.

That video burned itself into John's mind because _that_ was the video that showed Sherlock in love with Moriarty. John could see Sherlock torture a thousand people and come back from it, come back from it with a plan on how to move forward and work on the problem, but seeing the man heseeing his best friend thinking that he loved the person who raped him...well, John felt so much despair every time he thought about it.

As a soldier, John was used to picking himself and others up from horrible situations. As a doctor, he was used to fixing things that sometimes people didn't think could be fixed. But John honestly didn't know what to do this time. He just wanted Sherlock back.

But he was a soldier, and he was a doctor, so he did his best to keep moving. He forced himself to go to work and forced himself to keep in contact with his friends. He forced himself to eat and shower and sleep in regular intervals. He forced himself to not spend every moment of his free time in Sherlock's room, but he wasn't ashamed to admit that he slept _much_ better in Sherlock's bed, surrounded by his things and his smells, than he did in his own.

His alarm went off at six a.m., and he got up, because he was supposed to. He showered, dressed, and ate a full breakfast, then took the tube to work. He saw his patients, spoke kindly with his coworkers, and ate his lunch at his usual time. After his shift was done, he went back home. It felt too empty, too quiet, and John felt his chest tighten painfully. He went to the pub, instead.

He was decidedly tipsy when the guy sitting a seat away from him talked. "You have the look of a military man."

John turned his head, frowning at the man. He was tall and broad, with blonde hair and a charming smile. His accent was a strange mix of RP and cockney, and on his bare arm John could see a tattoo of the symbol for the First Bangalore Pioneers; an army man, then. John smiled back at him.

"Yea, yes, I am. Or, was, technically. A captain in the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. I take it you're a Pioneer?"

The man's smile grew and he got up, coming over and sitting on the seat next to John. "Caught sight of my tattoo, huh?" he said with a laugh. "Yea; a Colonel. A damn good marksman, if I do say so m'self. What did you do?"

"Doctor," John replied, his smile not leaving his face; the man's positive energy was infectious, and John was tipsy enough to enjoy it.

The man whistled, impressed. "A doc overseas saved my life many times; pretty badass, _Captain."_

The low tone of the man's voice sent a pleasant shiver down John's spine, especially when combined with his pretty eyes and the charming smile on his face. The smile grew as if the man knew exactly what John had just been thinking, and John's cheeks warmed.

"I'm John," he offered his hand.

"Sebastian," the man replied, shaking his hand with a twinkle in his eye. "Can I buy you another drink?"

Apparently, John was also tipsy enough to say yes.

Very soon, John began to feel very drunk and out of it, even though he'd only had one and a half more drinks since he'd had a clear enough had to form intelligible sentences and walk straight by himself. But now he was swaying, and every time Sebastian popped a cashew into his mouth or licked his lips, John was imagining what it would be like to kiss him.

So when Sebastian leaned in close, his breath breezing warmly against John's face, and asked if he wanted to _"get outta here",_ John accepted.

The Colonel threw down some cash to pay for the drinks and John didn't have the brain power at the moment to realize he'd paid for all of John's as well, which put together must have been a _lot_ of money. He then led John out the door, easily supporting his weight. John _also_ didn't have the brain power to notice that a sleek, black towncar pulled up just as they exited the bar, as if it had been waiting.

Sebastian helped John into the car and sat down next to him, quite close. John relaxed back into the plush seat, exhaling slowly, his eyes sliding shut. His body felt heavy and loose and he let himself fall into it.

But there was a body right next to him, warm and solid, and when Sebastian leaned over to kiss him, John let him, opening his mouth and moaning as Sebastian pushed his palm against his manhood. John heard the clink of a belt coming undone, and then another, and suddenly a warm, scarred hand was wrapping around him. His hips bucked into the touch as he gasped and moaned.

John didn't know when, but at one point he lost the name of whoever was touching him, lost all reference to anything about him. His head was too clouded, filled with lust and a fog that in a sober state he would've recognized as the effect of drugs.

Whoever the man was, he turned John over so that his stomach was against the expensive leather and drew down his trousers and pants. The warm hand with sharp callouses was still moving around his penis and John continued to thrust into it. His ass-cheeks were spread apart and a dick slid into his crack. The man started the moving, grunting as his penis glided between John's ass-cheeks.

John moaned at the feeling, especially as the thrusts timed with the strokes of the man's hand. The man pulled John backwards, so that he was mostly in his lap, and his movements sped up. John shoved back against it, panting heavily, and he felt the pleasure building and building inside of him until with one final stroke of the man's hand he came. Shortly after, the man came as well, spilling his load right in John's crack.

After a few moments, the man said, "Damn, Captain. If the boss allows it, we have _got_ to do that againand more."

He chuckled, and John hummed in agreement, not noticing the reference to a "boss" _"letting"_ them do it again. John let himself be manhandled back into a sitting position, let the man clean him off with what felt like a damp cloth, and then straighten his clothes.

"We'll be there soon, Cap. Boss said we could have some fun on the way as long as we arrived on time, and looks like we succeeded there."

John hummed again, feeling relaxed and very sated. The last time he'd had sex had been about two weeks before Sherlock had been taken, and he hadn't even been able to successfully masturbate recently because all he could think of was everything Sherlock was going through. Or worse; he'd think of Sherlock's hand wrapped around him and then remember what his friend was going through, which would immediately kill his erection.

At the thought of Sherlock, John suddenly felt uncomfortable and his mind cleared a bit, the weight of everything he'd forgotten coming back to him.

How could he have just done that? Sherlock was somewhere being raped and messed with and forced into doing things that he would never want to do. And here John was, getting off in a nice car with a man he'd just met. It had been nice, John knew that. The manSebastian?had been funny and charming and he'd focused on John's pleasure as much as his own. But _Sherlock..._

"Wait," John mumbled. "W't'd'ya mean, _boss?_ Why...what're you talk'n ab't?"

Sebastian looked over at him with a grin. He'd rolled down the window and lit up a cigarette, he John had to admit that the Colonel looked attractive with it in his mouth. He might've hated when Sherlock smoked, but the detective had always looked damned good with one.

"Don't worry, Captain. Jim's not gonna hurt'chadoesn't like gettin' his hands dirtyand neither will I, without Boss tellin' me to. Pretty sure he's just gonna see if he can get his new guy to do it. Gotta admit, I'm just as curious about that answer as he is."

Something stood out sharply in John's mind. _"Jim?"_ he exclaimed. "What the fuck do youJim _Moriarty?"_

The colonel grinned, dragging in some smoke from his cigarette and then letting it out in a smooth line. "I was wonderin' when you'd catch on. Gotta give ya' credit, though; with the amount of drugs I put in your drink, anyone else still wouldn't be formin' sentences. You're doin' pretty well, all things considered."

John opened his mouth to say something, panic and fury rising in him, but he was stopped short when Sebastian pulled something out of his jacket pocket and tossed it over to John. It was a little vial filled with clear liquid.

"That's the antidote to what I put in your system; Boss had that drug made special a couple years backit won't just go out of you're system like a normal one would; you've gotta take that to get rid of all of the effects. It's very fast-acting, and trust me: you'll really want your wits about you for what's ta' come."

Without hesitation, John uncorked the vile and drank the antidote. He figured that if they wanted to kill him, Sebastian could've done it easily a thousand times over since they met. And yea, if John was about to see Moriartyand please god, _Sherlock_ he really wanted full control over his faculties.

It turns out that Sebastian had been right; almost instantly, John's head felt clearer and his limbs less heavy. He flexed his hands and feet to test it, and then ran through some phone numbers to see if his brain was catching up. Everything worked.

Briefly, John considered attacking Sebastian. But the colonel probably had various weapons on his person, and he was still in a car being driven by another one of Moriarty's lackies. Plus, if he stayed calm, he could be seeing Sherlock very soon.

"That's right, Cap." John jumped at Sebastian's voice, but looked over at him. Sebastian was staring contentedly out the window, but he glanced at John, his lips twisting wryly. "Just stay calm and you can see your detective again. Dunno how pleasant it'll be though..."

John wanted to ask how the other man had _possibly_ known what John had been thinking, but was stopped again by Sebastian; this time with a laugh. "I've been watchin' ya' on and off for the past month'r so; I know what'cha look like when your thinkin' about ol' Blue Eyes."

Part of John wanted to feel embarrassed that he'd been read so easily by the enemy _not by Sherlock_ but he was too wired up and too anxious about what was about to happen to waste time on such a stupid emotion at the moment.

They fell silent. John looked out the window, hoping to see some clues as to where they were, but the windows were heavily tinted and it was dark outside, anyway, so he could barely see a thing.

Within five minutes, the car was slowing and then pulling to a stop. Sebastian glanced at his watch and sighed in annoyance, before pushing open his door. "Come on," he said to John with a jerk of his head. "Boss' waitin'. We're four minutes late. Hopefully he'll be too excited about what's happenin' to be mad about it." ~~~~

* * *

Sherlock felt very strange.

It wasn't a physical thing; no, he'd gotten over the withdrawals from the one time he shot up in less than a day, and he'd been eating and sleeping regularlywell, regularly for _him,_ at least.

But there was something in his head that just wasn't quite right. The cocainewhich had felt _fabulous_ in the beginninghad knocked some thing loose that Sherlock didn't understand. It was vague, and whenever he tried to focus on it it went away and he got pulled easily into another line of thought. But there was _something_ that wasn't right in his brain.

Sherlock had never not been able to trust his mind before. More than anything, _that_ had been his constant. When Mycroft pulled away, and his dad died, and Victor tried to force him (unsuccessfully) into sex, Sherlock had always been able to rely completely on his mind. People were not trustable to be there but his _mind._ How could it betray him?

Then there were the cuts on his arm. The two letters that Sherlock didn't understand. Jim had cleaned and examined them when Sherlock had calmed down enough to stay still, and then Sebastian had stitched them up and wrapped them for him, keeping a running commentary the whole time which made Jim snap at him but made Sherlock feel a bit more relaxed.

There were the cuts on his arm in the rough shape of the letters _JW._ Sherlock couldn't remember why. He knew that at the time, when he'd carved them deeply into his skin, they had felt important. They had been rattling around in his head, just out of reach, but had become clearer when he'd been highjust barely, but important enough in his drugged-addled state that Sherlock had felt it necessary to mar his skin with them so that he'd remember.

But he didn't know _why._

Five days had passed since what he and Jim were referring to as The Incident. In those five days, Sherlock had broken three plates in anger and shot the wall multiple times. Each time any of that happened, Jim came to him and smashed a few plates of his own and completed whatever shape Sherlock was shooting into the wall.

In all of Sherlock's bouts of anger and confusion that came out as destruction, Jim was there to scream and rage with him, a constant, steady presence. While Sherlock could not trust his own mind, he could trust Jim's. Jim always knew exactly what he needed, and helped him in any way that he could.

But Sherlock was _Sherlock,_ and he could see that it was affecting Jim as well. The man looked more tired, more wary of everyone they went to meet. They both needed the closeness, and often then would lie tangled together on the couch or in bed, simply taking comfort from each others' presence.

Still, something was _wrong._ Something was _not right._

It was just after eight p.m. on a Thursday when Jim came to get him. He'd been in his lab, working on an experiment, so he knew it was important because Jim _never_ interrupted him while he was working.

Sherlock looked up and Jim grinned. "Come with me, my dear. I've got a little thing I want you to do."

Curious despite the fact that he wanted to continue working, Sherlock let Jim pull him to his feet and lead him out of his lab and down the stairs. But Jim didn't stop at the first floor, which let Sherlock know what Jim had planned; the only thing on the lower levelbasement, technicallywas a chamber for torture.

They rarely brought anyone back to their home, not wanting the one place they truly lived to be traceable, but occasionally (mainly when Jim had been teaching Sherlock the art of torturing someone) they did have someone put down there, just for easy and long-term access.

The room was pretty nice, overall, not like what would immediately pop into your head when you heard the words "torture chamber". It looked a bit like a plain bedroom, with a smallbut nicebed off to the side, a shower and toilet in the back right corner, and a dresser. Except the dresser with filled with different torture tools, from the sharpest of blades to the longest of whips.

There were also chains that could be lowered from the ceiling to lock the person in place; the best way was to stretch it so that it put a lot of pressure on their shoulders and the person struggled to keep their footing.

Sherlock had gotten pretty good at the whole thing; he hated being bad at things, after all.

Through a different door, just outside this main chamber, was a smaller one. And it was _far_ less nice than the main one. Sherlock spoke from experience, though he didn't think on how he had such experience for very long.

Right before they entered the main chamber, Jim stopped him. "This is important, my dear," Jim said, pushing some curls behind Sherlock's ear lovingly; Sherlock leaned into the touch and nodded. "Just do what you'd always do, dear. This one...well, we'll see what happens."

Sherlock didn't understand why Jim was shifting on the balls of his feet, the way he did when he was nervous or excited or both, but he didn't pay it any mind. This was clearly important to Jim, and Sherlock didn't want to let him down.

The former detective leaned in and kissed his love briefly, which Jim returned happily, and then he pushed open the door.

The first thing Sherlock saw when he entered the room was Sebastian. He was leaning against the wall by the door, spinning a knife absentmindedly in his hand. He glanced over when the pair of geniuses entered, nodding his hello and quirking his lips. Sebastian seemed to always be smiling, whether it be charmingly or murderously.

The next thing Sherlock saw was the second man in the room. He'd been pacing, that was clear, but he'd stopped when the door had opened. Now, he was gaping at Sherlock, staring at him like he was drinking water for the first time after spending years in the desert. It made Sherlock feel puzzled.

He was a military man, that was clear; his posture was in straight-backed form, his head held high, in the way that only the army could brand into someone's mind. His haircut was army regulation, but just a bit grown out, so he'd probably been out of the army for a while. And his eyes were locked onto Sherlock, not even glancing at Sebastian or Jim.

"Sherlock," the man said his name on a breath, said it like it was the best word in the whole entire world.

Sherlock frowned, tilting his head. The way the man acted was familiar _extremely_ familiarbut Sherlock didn't know him, he was sure of that. _Are you really sure? Can you trust your memory with everything that has happened?_ He told the voice in his head to shut up, and was grateful for Jim's presence just behind his left shoulder.

The man walked forward, his hand reaching out as if without his permission, as if in a daze. Sherlock's frown deepened and he pressed back against Jim; he wasn't trying to get away, simply seeking more of Jim's comforting presence.

The man stopped short, pain flashing through his eyes. From one moment to the next, the broken man transformed into the soldier that he clearly had been. He locked down his emotions, his face turning to the stone of a man in a warzone. His eyes _(blue, so very, very blue)_  moved deliberately away from Sherlock. When they landed on Jim they hardened and he seemed to be trying to keep himself from attacking.

Protectiveness flared briefly in Sherlock's chest and he straightened his own posture in response, pulling forward his normal mask of arrogant indifference.

"What exactly is the plan, Jim?" Sherlock asked curiously. "Usually they're already locked up when you bring me here."

He glanced over his shoulder and saw Jim smiling, clearly very satisfied with something; probably the man's strange pain.

Jim stepped forward and ran his hand intimately down Sherlock's arm and across his waist. Sherlock quirked an eyebrowJim was choosing right _then_ to make a possessive gesture? _Why?_ but allowed the touching, mostly because he was incredibly intrigued by the way the soldier reacted. The man's face twisted into a snarl and he took an angry, threatening step forward.

He was stopped when Sebastian moved, shifting closer to Sherlock and Jim. He wasn't actively trying to look dangerous at the moment, but he was a large, scarred man twirling a big knife and it was obvious that he'd jump in front of the two geniuses without hesitation. The other man stopped short, but really didn't look happy about it.

"You get your hands off of him," the soldier snarled at Jim, his hands clenching at his side.

"Excuse me?" Sherlock said before Jim could retort. "I don't see how it's any business of yours or how you have any say in what we do."

Sherlock could feel Jim chuckle against his side but his attention was fully focused on the man. At Sherlock's words his expression had crumpled again, despair taking over his features.

"You really don't remember me," the man said quietly, brokenly. "God, he screwed you up. Sherlock, I am so, so sorry."

Sherlock really didn't know what to feel or think. This man _knew_ him, knew him _very_ well. This man...he held a lot of affection for Sherlock, and he seemed honestly anguished by what was happening. And he spoke as if he had expected the way Sherlock was currently struggling with his mind and what was really in it.

"My dear," Jim said, drawing Sherlock's attention. "Sebby can string him up; what would you like to start with? You've always been the best with the knives..."

Once again, the soldier's expression turned to stone. When Sebastian stepped forward, the man let him remove his jacket and then stretch his arms up and chain them to the ceiling without any protest or struggle.

Sherlock tilted his head, examining the man and trying to figure him out, but this time the man was staring resolutely ahead, not looking anywhere near Sherlock.

Slowly, not taking his eyes off of the soldier, Sherlock strode over to the drawers and opened one on the left that he knew held the knives he'd become most adept with. He turned his attention to the weapons and looked them over critically. This one felt important somehow, like he had to choose the absolute best for the man awaiting his torture.

With the same delicacy that Sherlock would pick up his violin, he lifted one of the thin knives, turning it this way and that to make sure it was the one he wanted. When he was sure, he briefly set it down so that he could remove his suit jacket and roll up his sleeves, and then picked it up again.

When he turned around, Jim was standing like a king, as impeccable as ever in his dark Westwood suit, and he took Sherlock's jacket from him and folded it nicely to avoid any creases.

Sherlock approached the soldier in the middle of the room. As always, the torturee's feet were raised as well, so that the man was left to find his balance on the balls of his feet.

Briefly, the man glanced over at him, a sadness in his eyes, but there was also something like understanding in his gaze, which didn't make any sense to Sherlock at all. As the man was looking away again, his eyes landed on Sherlock's right forearm, his eyes widening.

With vague confusion, Sherlock followed his gaze and saw it resting on his _JW_ -shaped cuts. Sherlock had removed the bandage earlier in the day because Jim had wanted to make sure it was healing well and then Sherlock had left it bare to get some fresh air. Sherlock didn't know why they had drawn the soldier's attention so thoroughly.

"My name is John Watson," the man said hurriedly. "I was a doctor in the armyFifth Northumberland Fusiliers. I have lived at 221B Baker Street for almost two years. You named your skull Billy and you talk to it when you need to think out loud and I'm not there. Mrs. Hudson always says that she's _'not your housekeeper'_ but she helps with anything we need, anyway, because she cares for us, you especially. You play the violin for hours on end, usually at three in the morning when you can't sleep. Your full name is William Sherlock Scott Holmes, but you decided that _William_ was too plebian so you made your own way. When we met the first time you diagnosed my military career in my psychosomatic limp and my sister's alcoholism in my mobile phone. You are _brilliant,_ Sherlock, and you're my friend. You're my best friend, Sherlock, so _please,_ please just come back to me."

Sherlock gaped at the man, his eyes wide and mouth open. There was no way the man could know all of that without knowing him very wellhe didn't just go throwing around his full name. And the things he said about himself; army doctor, psychosomatic limp. Sherlock had written about those things when he'd been high. _What is happening?_

"What kind of gun did you carry?" Sherlock demanded.

The man latched onto the opening. "British Army Browning L9A1; I took it back to Britain with me after my discharge because I couldn't bare to be without a gun, even though I wasn't supposed to."

This didn't make any _sense._ That was the gun Sherlock had sketched on the window. "What the hell," he breathed taking two steps backwards. The knife fell from his hand but he didn't even notice.

"My dear," Jim murmured, suddenly at his side. Sherlock turned to face him, panting, feeling like he couldn't breathe.

"Jim," Sherlock said pleadingly. "What's going on? Who is this? Why do Ithe other day Iwhen I wasJim, _I don't understand."_ His voice was desperate and he gripped Jim's arm tightly, using it to ground himself.

"It's alright, love," Jim said reassuringly, turning Sherlock to fully face him. "Everything is going to be just fine. I guess I just didn't account for muscle memory, or the doctor's persistence. The Incident the other day certainly didn't help."

 _"What are you talking about?"_ Sherlock demanded. There was a tightness in his chest and panic and anger were rising in him, battling for dominance.

Jim rose his hand towards Sherlock. He ran it lovingly down the side of Sherlock's, across his neck, and down his arm.

Instantly, Sherlock calmed down. His body relaxed and he let out a deep, even breath, the panic and anger fading away. He leaned into Jim's embrace, feeling so much love for him right then, and his head fell forward to rest against the shoulder of the man he loved.

"That's right, love," Jim cooed in his ear. "Just relax. Everything is ok, Sherlock. I'm here. I'll always be here."

Sherlock half-nodded and took a deep breath, drawing in the familiar sent of _Jim._

Absently, Sherlock heard a familiar voice yelling angrily and he shifted closer to Jim, wanting to be away from someone so opposite in emotion to him right then.

"Oh, _do_ be quiet, Doctor Watson!" Jim said in exasperation to the yelling man. His face then turned towards the taller man in his arm and slid his hand through Sherlock's hair in a loving gesture. "Come on, Sherlock. Let's go get some sleep, hmm? We can talk more about this in the morning."

Sherlock made a sound of agreement and pulled back from Jim slightly so that he could walk towards the door. Jim stayed pressed against his side, one arm wrapped around his waist.

The were at the door when the chained-up man called out, "Sherlock you can break through this! He hashe _conditioned_ those responses into you! It's not real, Sherlock, it's not real! _I'm_ real, Sherlock. I'm you're friend, I'm your partner, I'll stand by your side through no matter what but you have to _try!_ _"_

Briefly, Sherlock glanced back and saw the man staring at him desperately, straining against the chains holding him. But Jim gave a small tug and Sherlock kept walking.

Just as they were about to leave, almost through the door, John Watson screamed, _"I love you!"_ Sherlock froze. "I love you, I love you, I love you, I love you. Please, _please,_ Sherlock don't leave. Don't leave Sherlock because I don't know what's going to happen to either of us and I _can't lose you again._ I can't lose you again, not when I just found you. _I love you."_  His voice was broken and pleading and desperate and quiet by the end.

There was something in Sherlock's mind that was wiggling, something just out of reach of his thoughts, but it was _important._ It was important just like the _JW_ he had carved into his arm. One and the same, maybe. Army doctor, psychosomatic limp, British Army Browning L9AI. John Watson.

John Hamish Watson.

"John," Sherlock said on a whisper. He tried to turn back to see him, one arm reaching out blindly because he wanted to know what he'd forgotten, he wanted more pieces to put together until he had the whole picture of what was happening in his head, what had happened to him under the influence of drugs to throw his mind so out of his control.

But he couldn't turn, couldn't look back, because Jim pulled him more quickly out the door and up the stairs. Sherlock weakly moved along with him, unconsciously dragging his heels because he wanted _answers._

Jim got him up onto the first floor and turned him to face him. His palms cupped Sherlock's cheeks, turning his face until he was looking directly into Jim's eyes. "Sherlock," Jim said seriously, an almost urgent edge to his voice. "Sherlock. Focus on me, ok, love? Can you do that for me?" When Sherlock was clearly still absentminded, Jim pulled him a little closer. "Please?" he added, almost desperately.

Sherlock listened, turning his full attention to Jim, his arms wrapping very loosely around the shorter man's waist, and nodded.

Jim nodded back, decisively. "Good. Ok, Sherlock. I want you to really commit something to memory right now, alright?" Sherlock nodded again. "That man in there said that he loved you. And I bet that he does. But he's _worthless,_ Sherlock. He is _nothing._ A pet, a passing fancy, a tool to make you feel clever. But you don't _need_ him! You're _mine!"_

Jim's eyes were wild and desperate. _"I_ love you, Sherlock. You're _mine,_ not his. We belong together! We were _made for each other;_  you _know_ this! So don't listen to the dog who's trying to turn you back to him. I am all you need. We have a good life, don't we? We have everything we need to be happy."

"Nothing makes sense," Sherlock replied, his voice surprisingly quiet when compared to Jim's wild desperation. "I don't know what's going on. You're there, in my head, with our life of living to the fullest extent. Our life of passion and joy and _brilliance._  But he's starting to be there, tooagain, I think. He's there with calm, peaceful afternoons and exciting chases through the streets. And I can't make sense of them both being in my head. None of it is supposed to fit together but you're both there all the same."

Jim crashed his lips against Sherlock's, pressing their bodies together tightly. Sherlock held him just as firmly, feeling his own desperation rising.

Why did this feel like it was coming to an end? He was safe there, at home with his Jim. He had his John, too, so very close. With both of them there he could work it out. He could figure out what was wrong with his mind and find a way to make it all work together. The three of them, they'd figure it out. They'd be safe, staying there alone at their big house.

So why did he hear many pairs of footsteps coming towards them when the only other people in the house were Sebastian and John?

Jim broke away from him, his eyes narrowed as he turned to face the hall where the steps were coming from. A team of men appeared. They were decked out in black and body armor, their guns trained firmly on Jim.

Lightning fast, Jim moved. He twirled so that he had an hand wrapped around Sherlock's neck, and a gun that Sherlock hadn't even realized that Jim had _on_ him was suddenly in the shorter man's hand...and pointed at Sherlock's head.

"Why don't all of you just relax," Jim said, his voice bright and chipper, a strange contrast from the dark desperation he'd been surrounded by just a minute ago. "You boys can just drop your guns and everyone here makes it out alive, isn't that right, my dear?"

"Jim." Sherlock didn't know what he was trying to convey to the man who was pressing a gun against his temple, to one of the men he loved. It wasn't blame, or fear, or hatred or even love. It was just...an acknowledgment. Of what, he wasn't sure.

The men didn't listen to Jim's instructions, but soon the crowd of themmaybe ten total?were parting, and right down the middle towards Sherlock and Jim walked Mycroft Holmes.

"Put the gun down, Mr. Moriarty. You are not going to shoot my brother." Mycroft's tone was confident, but normal, as if he were simply discussing the weather. Sherlock felt a rush of hatred and relief towards his brother when seeing him. Another mix of memories, lies and truth, that Sherlock was going to have to work through.

"You underestimate my wish to get out of here," Jim replied, an edge to his still-chipper tone.

"But I do not underestimate what you consider your _love_ for Sherlock," Mycroft said in response, just as bland.

Jim's face twisted into a snarl. "Do not pretend to know the way my mind works or what I feel, _Ice Man._ I _do_ love him, but _hellloooo,_ murderous psychopath, remember? I'll kill him if it means I can get out of here. Do you understand, Mr. Holmes?"

"Jim," Sherlock said again, still just as unsure as to what he was meaning.

For the first time since he appeared, Mycroft looked over at Sherlock. His eyes flicked all over his brother, examining all of him in a few moments. His expression darkened at something he saw, but Sherlock didn't know what.

"Hello, Brother Mine," Mycroft said casually. "How goes living with awhat was it?murderous psychopath? Must get _dreadfully_ boring."

Mycroft's familiar dry humor comforted something in Sherlock, even as he felt a flare of anger about the insult to Jim. "Oh, you know," Sherlock replied, trying to match his tone to his brother's. "Nothing ever to do. If only Jim had an empire or _something_ interesting to be a part of."

Mycroft's lips quirked, his quiet relief that Sherlock had replied in a way he normally would. Jim's hand around Sherlock's neck tightened slightly, adding some pressure to the detective's windpipe.

"Calm yourself, my dear," Jim whispered sharply in his ear. "Remember that this is the man who threw you away when you were little and paid random people to spy on you."

Just as Jim's words were aimed to create, Sherlock felt anger rise and form right next to his mollification at Mycroft's presence.

His brother's eyes narrowed slightly, analyzing this interaction. "Mr. Moriarty," he said. "The man to my right is one of the best marksmen the world has to offer. He will easily be able to shoot you in the head before your finger can even twitch on that trigger." Sherlock felt his breath quicken in panic. "But I would rather not have that done, seeing as I'm not sure of my brother's mental state in relation to you at the moment or what that would do to him. So lower your gun, or _I will give the order."_

"Mycroft," Sherlock said desperately. Mycroft ignored him completely, staring directly at Jim. _"Jim,"_ Sherlock tried instead, tone just as despairing. Jim's hand loosened minutely, enough for Sherlock to feel it but not enough for Mycroft to see it. "Jim, please don't die," his voice was a whisper. "I can't lose you, not after everything. You can't-"

Sherlock stopped suddenly, a memory he hadn't known he'd had flooding his mind. Him, tied to a chair in that cell in the basement. Drugs, used on him so many times. Kind touches and words that pushed out his previous connections. A bed that he didn't want to be on. His forced first time.

The pale-eyed man gasped for air. Not because there was any pressure on his neck, but because he'd just realized that Jim had raped him. That his first time having sex hadn't been consensual. That Jim had played with his mind, even though his mind didn't have a clue how far that went. His brain was trying to fill in the gaps but there was so much missing, so much twisted.

And yet Sherlock still loved him.

"You're not allowed to die," Sherlock said, his voice scratchy yet firm. "You did so much to me, so you are going to give me this. You broke me, Jim, and you got me because of it. So I get something in return. You _cannot die,_ understand me?"

Jim was frozen still behind him. No one dared breathe or shift. And then Jim dropped the gun.

The gunmen began moving quickly towards them, but before they could reach Jim, Sherlock pulled the first consulting criminal close, wrapping his long arms tightly around him. The gunmen pulled Jim awaydelicately, though, for which Sherlock was gratefuland as they were handcuffing him Sherlock kissed him, soft and full of so many emotions that Sherlock couldn't get straight.

The gunmen pulled him away, and Jim let them, walking confidently and with his head held high. Ever the king.

Sherlock stared after him blankly, not sure what he was supposed to feel. Mycroft came and stood by his side, a silent presence if he needed it.

"Will you let him live?" Sherlock asked, his voice void of anything.

He could feel Mycroft looking at him for a few moments before his brother looked away. "Do you want me to?"

Sherlock didn't bother to reply. Mycroft knew the answer to that question; he didn't need an actual response.

"John Watson is in the large room right down the stairs. Colonel Sebastian Moran is down there with him; he's Jim's right hand man. He won't betray Jim for anything, but getting him as well as Jim will be a strong blow to the organization."

Mycroft nodded, and two of the gunmen followed the unsaid instruction, going down the stairs to their left.

"You know I'm going to have to take you to the hospital, correct?" Mycroft said quietly. "You've been in the company of a torturer, rapist, murderer for more than nine weeks. A psychological evaluation will also be necessary."

"And _you_ know that I'll just bullshit my way through that evaluation." Mycroft made an exasperated sound of agreement. "I will do the physical one, though, since it will set your mind at ease."

"I don't think my mind will be at ease for a very long time, Sherlock." His brother turned to look at him, and, after a moment, Sherlock looked at him, too. "What do you remember about that time?"

Sherlock knew what he meant. He chose not to answer. "Was there a camera in the room?" Mycroft exhaled and nodded. Sherlock hummed. "Yes, I thought so now. The way you and Doctor Watson both reacted to seeing me...it made sense."

The Holmes brothers fell silent. Soon, there was the sound of footsteps, and the two guards who had gone down to the basement appeared, lugging a handcuffed Sebastian between them.

Sherlock looked at him and Sebastian met his gaze evenly. There wasn't any blame there, but there was a well of anger. Right as the guards were turning him away and down the hallway, Sebastian's lips quirked upwards, his trademark smile never far from his face. In a strange way, it comforted Sherlock.

The final person coming up the stairs was John Watson. He was a little bruised and battered, favoring his left side; Sebastian must have beaten him a bit after Jim had made Sherlock leave.

When John saw Sherlock looking at him, he stepped forward tentatively. "Sherlock?" he said questioningly.

"You're very important to me." The phrase was a statement but it was said almost as if it were a question. John frowned and Sherlock lifted his arm slightly, drawing attention to the still-healing _JW_ he'd carved into his skin. "Important enough that I made sure I could remember part of it by scarring myself."

John Watson winced and walked a bit closer. His eyes flicked to Mycroft. "How'd you find us?" he asked.

Mycroft straightened now that attention was on him. "Colonel Moran was not nearly as thorough in covering his tracks when he took you as when they took Sherlock. Or, more accurately, he didn't think that he had to be so careful. He didn't consider that I'd be watching you just in case. My team and I were able to find where they'd taken you fairly quickly."

John nodded and looked back to Sherlock. The detective was still examining him, going over every detail of his face to try and trigger some memory. John Watson looked hopeful.

"I don't know you." Sherlock's tone was perfectly blunt.

The soldier's face crumpled, clearly hurt, and Sherlock felt a little bad, but he wasn't going to lie. "But before...down in the room, you knew my gun. You knew _me."_

Sherlock looked away, unable to keep his attention on the despair covering the normally strong man's face. "You're in my head. You are, I know that; I have fragments, pieces. I know that I love you. I know that I love Jim." John Watson made a sound of pain but Sherlock ignored it and barreled forward. "I remember my time with Jim, these past few weeks. It is _real_ to me. It happened. And I know that he forced himself into my mind and my body without my consent. But it is real nonetheless."

He paused, talking a few even breaths. "I don't know you, John Watson, not really. I love you, but I don't know you." He turned his head back to look at the soldier and was grateful that the man had tried his best to keep his face blank; Sherlock could still read the sadness, but it was easier to bare with it hidden.

"I don't know you." Sherlock reiterated. "But I'd like to try."

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading!! I hope you enjoyed it. Let me know if you guys would be interested in another story!


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